


Melted

by queenj (thisishowidisappear)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Professor Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishowidisappear/pseuds/queenj
Summary: Harry Potter finally feels like he's where he belongs when he begins teaching at Hogwarts. But when someone begins making threats against him and against the school, the Ministry of Magic assigns an Auror to protect him at all times. The return of this familiar face brings about old memories he doesn't want to remember, and new feelings he can't understand.





	1. Chapter One

Harry paces his office, glancing at the Muggle clock on his wall every few minutes. He hasn’t been this anxious about a class at Hogwarts since he was a first year, sitting in Snape’s darkened potions classroom with no knowledge of anything magical. Of course, at the time he had been a student, but this time around he’s a professor waiting for his first class of third year Gryffindors to arrive.

When Harry graduated Hogwarts, he had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. Being an Auror was much less appealing after he had lived through a war, and seen what it entailed. He tried anyway, but quit Auror training after two months.At the time, he had been living in a flat with Ron and Hermione, but soon found third-wheeling was even less fun when you shared a flat. He moved to Grimmauld Place then, and spent an entire year trying to make the place feel more liveable, only to realize that the memories haunting the corridors could not be removed with a fresh coat of paint. That was when the owl had arrived from Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall practically begged Harry to fill the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, seeing as everyone else in the Wizarding World believed the position to be cursed. Harry accepted, eager to feel like he was actually doing something with his life instead of just depleting his savings. The remainder of the summer was spent studying the curriculum and acquiring a host of magical creatures and cursed objects he thought would be useful in training young witches and wizards. Before he knew it, he was throwing Floo powder into his fireplace and stepping through the green flames into the Headmaster’s office.

Although he doesn’t feel prepared to teach in the least, he puts on a mask of false confidence when the students begin to file into his classroom one by one. They each look at him lounging against the desk, some with awe and admiration, and some with quiet curiosity. He notices more than one pair of eyes flicking to the place where his scar is hidden beneath his wild hair. 

Within a few minutes, every seat in the classroom is filled and the soft buzz of whispered conversation fills the room. Harry stands, takes a deep breath, and begins his lesson. 

“Hello,” he begins, forcing his voice to remain steady. “My name is Professor Potter, and I’ll be teaching you to defend yourself against a variety of dark creatures and spells alike. I figured that we could start with something I also learned when I was a third year.” He pulls a large sheet off of the cabinet that stands next to his desk, and the cabinet rattles slightly. “This cabinet holds a Boggart,” he says, smiling slightly as he remembers Lupin’s lesson on the exact subject. “Does anyone know what a Boggart is?”

A few students raise tentative hands. He calls on a girl with strawberry blonde hair and a dusting of freckles on her cheeks and nose. “A Boggart takes the form of your worst fear,” she says confidently, and Harry can’t help but think of Hermione.

“Very good, miss, um...”

“Emma Cornish, sir,” the girl responds.

“Good job, Emma. Two points to Gryffindor.”

The girl smiles and blushes, and Harry turns his attention back to the cabinet.

“The spell for Boggarts is really quite simple. All you have to do is think of a way to make it funny, and say Riddikulus! Would anyone like to try?”

Only three students raise their hands, and Harry calls on a boy with short curly hair and coffee-toned skin. The boy stands in front of the cabinet and Harry unlocks it, and the Boggart tumbles out and takes the form of a vicious looking german shepherd with spit dripping from its sharp yellow teeth. The dog growls and takes a step toward the boy. 

“Focus,” says Harry. “And say Riddikulus!”

“Riddikulus!” says the boy, and the dog morphs into a golden retriever puppy and begins to chase its own tail. The dog trips over his own oversized paws, and the boy begins to giggle.

“Good work!” Harry says and sends the Boggart back into the cabinet. “Now we’re going to take turns with the Boggart, but before we do, does anyone have any questions?”

A girl with close cropped black hair raises her hand. 

“Yes?” says Harry.

“Is it true that you survived the killing curse twice?”

The class falls silent, holding their breath to see what he’ll say.

“Well, yes, it is,” Harry responds. The class bursts into excited chatter and several more hands fly into the air. Harry calls on a boy with striking blue eyes and blue hair to match.

“What did You-Know-Who look like?” he asks.

Harry grimaces. “Quite ugly.”

Harry answers a few more questions before raising a hand to settle the class down.

“As fun as it is to talk about the things I’ve done, I’d rather see what you can do. So I want everyone to line up.”

Emma stands in front of the cabinet, and the rest of the class files into line behind her. Harry gives her a reassuring smile and reminds her of the spell. She nods, and with a flick of his wand, Harry opens the cabinet. 

+++

The rest of the week and the beginning of the next one pass without incident. Harry begins to settle into the new job, becoming more confident in front of his students, even the seventh year Ravenclaws to whom he accidentally introduced himself as “Professor Potty” on his first day. Similarly, the children become less awestruck by him. The amazement of being in the presence of The Boy Who Lived fades soon after the first day of classes, until they begin treating him like every other professor. 

When he has breaks, he spends time in the staffroom gossipping with Neville, who teaches Herbology, and taking bets with Madame Hooch on who will win the Quidditch tournament this year. It seems as if this year would go as smoothly as a year could possibly go at Hogwarts.

That is until, two weeks after he arrived, he receives a message summoning him to the Headmaster’s office. He walks through the halls to the large stone eagle and says the password (“Ugly Duckling”) and the staircase begins ascending. At the top, he steps into the cool quiet of the office. Dumbledore smiles at him from a portrait on the wall, and Harry’s chest tightens.

“Mr. Potter,” says McGonagall. Harry turns around and sees her sitting at the ornately carved wooden desk.

“Hello Headmistress,” he responds, taking a seat in a chair in front of the desk.

“How are you finding your new position?” she asks.

“Oh, I love it,” Harry replies. “I think I’m really making a connection with the students.”

“Good,” she says, a soft smile visible in her eyes. The smile fades. “I didn’t call you here to talk about the students, though. I called you here because you may be in danger.” Harry feels his stomach drop. “Someone, probably a former follower of Voldemort, has been making public threats on the school and, more specifically, you, since you’ve begun working here.”

“They can’t get into the school, can they?” he asks. 

“Of course not. But people have managed before, and parents are worrying. The Ministry has decided to send an Auror to keep watch over you and the school. They’re hoping that former Death Eaters will be deterred by an Auror, and if they aren’t, both you and the school will be well protected. Quite frankly, I don’t think It’s necessary. Nobody could get into the school who would wish you harm.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He has had enough of people trying to kill him, and having someone to protect him, however unnecessary, is reassuring. “Thank you, Minerva .”

“Of course,” she says. “The Auror arrived a few moments ago. I’ve told him to wait for you in your office. I think you’ll find the two of you are already acquainted.” McGonagall’s eyes sparkle mischievously. Harry wants to ask who it is, but for whatever reason he thinks McGonagall wouldn’t tell him if he asked. Instead, he says goodbye and leaves the office, thinking hard as he makes his way back to his office. It could be Ron, he thinks. Ron has just finished Auror training, and a low-risk job guarding a professor at the most secure school in the world is exactly the kind of job they’d assign to a rookie. Harry feels thrilled at the prospect of sharing the castle with Ron again, just like they had when they were in school together. 

Spirits high, he opens his classroom door with a flick of his wand and strolls happily into the room. He stops short when he sees a man who is decidedly not Ron Weasley lounging on the edge of his desk.

Draco bloody Malfoy is on his desk, looking about as happy about his new position as Harry feels. Harry drags his eyes over the other man, taking in his appearance. Although he hasn’t seen Draco in years, he still looks strikingly similar to the way he did when they had graduated. His hair is a little longer, and it falls into his grey eyes as he scowls at Harry. Whereas he had been thin and bony when they were students, Auror training had given him a layer of lean muscle, visible through his fitted white shirt. He looks quite good, Harry thinks before he reminds himself that this is Malfoy, his sworn enemy, and no amount of time or muscle will change that. 

Harry realizes he’s been staring for longer than he should and opens his mouth to speak. He intends to say something intelligent, but all that comes out is “The Ministry sent you?”

“Your powerful skills of observation never cease to amaze, do they Potter?” 

Apparently five years isn’t enough time for him to stop being a git, Harry thinks, itching to say it aloud. Instead, he says “So you’re in charge of making sure Death Eaters don’t murder me?”

“Seems that way,” Malfoy says, looking around the classroom with a bored expression.

“But why would they send someone who…” Harry cuts off, his eyes drifting down to Malfoy’s forearm, where he knows the Dark Mark is hidden under his sleeve. 

“Why would they send a Death Eater, you mean?” he snaps, his scowl deepening. “Well not all of us are spending our time plotting to kill The Boy Who Lived, you know. Some of us are actually trying to atone for our crimes against wizardkind.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry says, sounding like an idiot even to his own ears. “I just meant, well, you can’t be the only Auror they had available. And they must know about our… history.”

“Yes, well, the Ministry figured someone with my background will be best at predicting the actions of Death Eaters. I’ve spent the past five years trying to prove my allegiances have really changed, and I’m sure the Ministry saw this as the perfect opportunity for me to prove it. Plus, when you testified for me at my trial, I’m sure they thought I owed you some kind of debt I was itching to repay.”

“Well they’re right, aren’t they?” Harry asks before he can stop himself. Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “I mean… not necessarily a debt to me, but perhaps, to society? I mean, you kill-” “What I did in my past has nothing to do with the present situation, Harry.” Harry quiets, feeling uncomfortable and itchy in his own classroom. “So,” begins Malfoy, clapping his hands and getting off the desk. The anger from earlier has subsided, and is replaced with a businesslike cool. He produces a manila folder labeled “TOP SECRET” in large red letters. “I'm supposed to brief you on what's going on. Since it became public that you're teaching here there's been activity among former Death Eaters. Correspondences are intercepted almost daily, all of which contain threats against you and, subsequently, the school.

“After the war, almost all the surviving Death Eaters were rounded up and put in jail, for the most part, or pardoned. Some of the more dangerous ones, however, were never found.” Malfoy pulls a sheet of paper out of the folder and slides it across the desk. It’s a list of fourteen names. Harry scans it and grimaces when he sees names he recognizes, including the Carrows. Malfoy gets closer to Harry, leaning over to point out names on the list. Harry thinks he’s saying something about suspects, but Malfoy has gotten very close to him and he smells like a strange combination of citrus and spice and it’s maddening. 

Harry shakes his head, clearing it long enough to get back to the matter at hand. “So what do we do?” 

“Nothing, for now. I'm pretty sure they're just empty threats made by angry, deranged people who thought You-Know-Who was a god. And later, if it turns out they're actually coming after you, I'll protect you.”

Harry can't help but feel a strange surge of emotion when Malfoy says ‘I'll protect you.’ He pushes it to the side. “Sounds good.”

“Alright then,” Malfoy says, tucking the folder under his arm. He waves his wand and mutters a spell, and a second, identical door appears next to the door to Harry’s living quarters. Malfoy turns around. “And I know you have a tendency to attract death, but do us both a favor and try not to. I'm sure I'll be fired if the Boy Who Lived dies on my watch.” He spits ‘Boy Who Lived’ as if it's something disgusting and Harry feels a hot surge of anger rise in his chest. “If anyone tries to kill you, just yell,” he says, almost as an afterthought, before walking through the second door and slamming it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this is my first drarry fic, and I'm really loving this AU, however unrealistic it may be. I'll try to keep my updates as regular as possible. Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter Two

For the next week, Malfoy does nothing but get in Harry’s way. He sits in the back of his classes, writing in a small journal and eyeing the students suspiciously. It drives Harry mad.

Two days after Malfoy arrived, Harry returns from the staff room to find Malfoy sitting at his desk, an open letter in front of him. 

“Weasley wrote you,” Malfoy says. “He intended to warn you that I’d be here but his sorry excuse for an owl was far too slow. Also, he used the wrong form of ‘your’ four times.”

“You read my mail?” Harry asks, outraged. He stalks toward the desk and snatches up the letter. 

“Of course I read your mail. What if it had been cursed? What if the ink had been infused with poison?” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. “It is my job to keep you alive, after all.” 

Harry scowls. He opens his mouth to spit a witty response, but finds he can't think of one. “You’re a git,” is all he manages to say. Frustrated, he stalks into his room. 

“Tell the weasel to work on his grammar!” Malfoy calls after him. Harry slams the door to his living quarters behind him. Through the thin wood, he hears Malfoy laughing in the empty office.

+++

Despite Malfoy’s annoying presence, Harry soon finds himself adjusting to him, just like he adjusted to life at Hogwarts. He wakes up and leaves his living quarters only to find Malfoy waiting for him at his desk Every day, Harry asks “Don’t you ever sleep?” and every day Malfoy makes a snarky remark about how Harry sleeps too much or snores loudly enough to be heard through the stone wall. Harry, however, finds it hard to be annoyed when Malfoy always has a hot cup of tea waiting for him. 

Then, as Harry scrambles to make last minute preparations for his first class of the day, Malfoy will lounge in his chair at the desk as if he owns the place, his cool grey eyes following the other man’s every move. Sometimes he makes casual comments about the weather or Slytherin’s chances in the upcoming Quidditch match, but more often than not he sits silently, so silently Harry could almost forget he was there. 

Soon enough, the leaves on the Whomping Willow turn orange then brown and fall to the ground, and they’re no closer to catching the people who have been threatening Harry than they were when they began. One foggy mid-October morning, Harry walks into his classroom to find a letter floating in the air, a magical bubble enclosing it. Malfoy is sitting at Harry’s desk, evidently waiting for him.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks.

“Cursed paper. If you had touched this letter before I’d seen it you’d be dead.”

Harry felt the blood run out of his face. “Do you know who sent it?”

“No. I’m going to have to bring it back to the Ministry and see if they can figure it out.” He stands up. “Until I get back, don’t open any mail, don’t leave the castle, and make sure you have your wand on you at all times.”

Harry nods and Malfoy sweeps past him to the fireplace, where he throws a handful of Floo powder and shouts “Ministry of Magic!” With a roar of flames, he’s gone.

Harry’s suddenly grateful Malfoy went through his mail.

He alternates between pacing the room and staring out the window, tugging on strands of his hair. At one point he tries to sit down and grade essays on the best ways to protect yourself from a vampire attack, but he finds himself unable to focus, and resumes pacing.

The sun has sinks below the hills and casts the entire castle into darkness by the time Malfoy returns. He’s scowling, and hardly even looks at Harry as he walks into the office. 

“The entire bloody Ministry can’t figure out who cursed a piece of parchment. Useless, all of them.”

“Why are you so pissed off?” Harry asks, his fear melting away and being replaced with anger. “I’m the one who nearly died.” 

“Right, and you’re the only one who would be affected by that.” Harry stares blankly at the other man. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you know what it would do to me if you died?”

Harry’s stomach flipped. Did Malfoy actually care about him? He has no idea why that thought makes him feel like he’s floating, but it does. 

“Think of it this way, Potter; no one at the Ministry trusts me. Half of my superiors want me fired, the other half want me dead. The way they see it, if I do this right, I can prove that I left my affiliation with the Death Eaters behind. But if I don’t, and if something happens to you, they’ll find a way to pin it on me. They’ll say I helped somehow, or maybe I did you in myself. I’m going to Azkaban if you die, Potter, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

The warm feeling that had been spreading through Harry’s chest drained away and was replaced with the feeling of ice in his lungs. He should have known Malfoy didn’t actually care about him. “Well I’m so sorry you’d be inconvenienced if I fucking died! I should have known this was all about you! Even when you’re protecting me it’s just to save yourself!”

“Well Merlin knows I wouldn’t do it for any other reason! Why would I willingly spend my time babysitting an arsehole like you?”

Harry stands up and glares at the other man. “Well you know what? Maybe you should do your fucking job and find out who’s trying to kill me so you can leave me alone!”

Malfoy opens his mouth to respond, but Harry spins on his heel and stalks into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him so he doesn’t have to listen to what he has to say. He spends a few minutes pacing his tiny kitchen, muttering under his breath about how much he hates Malfoy. He hates him. 

After a few minutes of angry pacing, he settles down enough to realize he needs to keep his mind occupied, and that he left the stack of essays that need to be graded on his desk. He faces the door to his office, squares his shoulders, and pushes the door open, only to realize the don’t-talk-to-me vibes he’s exuding are unnecessary. Malfoy isn’t there. The office is empty. Inexplicably, he’s disappointed. Even more frustrated than before, he snatches the papers off the desk and storms back into his room. He grades papers until he can’t physically keep his eyes open, and then stumbles into bed and falls asleep as soon as his head hits his pillow. 

+++

The next morning, he wakes to the sound of heavy raindrops pounding against his window. He stretches and realizes that he forgot to take his glasses off before falling asleep, and they sat crookedly on his nose. He changes out of his clothes from the day before and into a fresh pair, and then shuffles out into his office. 

As usual, Malfoy’s sitting at his desk, Unlike usual, Harry isn’t greeted with a comment about his snoring, or even a miniscule nod. He notices there’s only one cup of tea on the desk. 

The silence in the room is stifling, and Harry leaves as soon as he can. He gets breakfast in the Great Hall, but finds he’s not hungry enough to eat more than a few bites. He doesn’t have a class for three more hours, so he spends the rest of the time wandering the castle, dreading going back to the icy quiet of his classroom. He ends up in a small alcove behind a tapestry, watching unseen as the students rush to breakfast and then class. At one point Malfoy rushes past his hiding spot, a concerned look on his face, and Harry vaguely wonders where he’s going. His eyes are beginning to slip shut when the bell tolls, telling him he really needs to get back to his classroom to prepare for his lesson.

He walks slowly back through the castle, trailing one hand on the wall and feeling the dips and cracks in the worn stone walls. He braces himself outside of his classroom door before he pushes it open. Malfoy is standing in the middle of the room, his long fingers tugging at his platinum hair. When he sees Harry, he immediately sighs in relief. 

“Merlin, Harry, where were you?” he asks, rushing toward the other man. Harry pushes the other man away.

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” he snaps.

“You don’t- What? I thought you had been taken, killed, or worse! I looked all over this castle and I couldn’t find you, I thought I was going to have to tell the Ministry I’d let Death Eaters get to you while I was living five meters away from you!” 

“I just wanted to be alone, and clearly I couldn’t do that in my own classroom,” Harry says, narrowing his eyes. Malfoy opens his mouth as if he’s going to respond, but at that exact moment the classroom door opens and the fifth year Hufflepuffs begin filing into the classroom for their lesson. Malfoy’s cheeks redden, and he turns on his heel and stalks into his room without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter's a little bit shorter than the first (and a day late, sorry about that) but I'm still proud of it. Comments are greatly appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

Malfoy doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the day. Once, after dinner, he comes into the office where Harry is grading papers, as if he’s going to say something, but Harry shoots him a look that he hopes portrays exactly how little he wants to talk to the other man in this moment. Malfoy sighs and goes back into his room.

The next morning, Harry wakes to gentle gray light filtering through his window. After getting ready, he leaves his room to find Malfoy sitting at his desk yet again.

“Contrary to what you may believe, that is not your desk,” Harry says.

Malfoy stands. “Harry, I just wanted to say-”

Harry cuts him off. “I have a class to get ready for, I’m sure whatever you want to say can wait.” He makes sure to keep his voice steady and cold, and Malfoy flinches. Good. 

Hurt, Malfoy slinks to a desk in the back of the classroom like a kicked dog. Harry pretends to be busy, when in reality he’d already gotten ready for the class the night before. He just doesn’t want to have a conversation with Malfoy that he knows would ruin his whole day. Luckily, he only has to stand around shuffling papers for a few minutes before students begin arriving in the classroom. 

Throughout the class, he tries to put Malfoy out of his head and focus on the lesson. In fact, he almost manages to get through the whole morning without letting his eyes drift over to where Malfoy is sitting, staring out the window. Almost.

+++

The next morning when Harry leaves his room, Malfoy is sitting at his desk again. He opens his mouth to tell him off, but before he gets the chance, Malfoy stands. He says nothing, but hands Harry a cup of tea, made just the way Harry likes it. He recognizes it as a peace offering.

“We don’t have to be friends,” says the blonde. “But it seems, for the time being, like we’re stuck together. It’ll be a hell of a lot more pleasant if we’re not at each other’s throats the whole time.”

Harry says nothing as he sips the tea, looking out the window at the sun trying desperately to peek through the clouds. He feels all the anger from the past few days recede, like ice melted by the tea that’s warming him from the inside out.

“Besides,” Malfoy begins again after Harry’s extended silence. “I realize that I was being a bit selfish. You have plenty of reason to be afraid, and I should have been more sympathetic to that.”

Harry nods. “Thank you,” he mutters. “I, um… I’m sorry, too. Azkaban’s a scary place, it’s reasonable to be… thinking about yourself.” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, unsure where to look. Civil conversation and apologies between Harry and Malfoy is new territory, and neither of them quite know what they’re doing. He sips his tea slowly and looks at the other man. Malfoy’s skin glows in the gentle morning sunlight streaming through the window, his eyes shining like silver. Harry’s so focused on absorbing every detail of the man that he spills his tea on his robes. 

He curses, calling Malfoy’s attention to him. The blonde’s mouth curls into a smirk. “Did you miss your mouth, Potter?” 

Okay, so I guess he’s not going to stop being a prick, Harry thinks and casts a cleaning charm on his outfit. However, he notices Malfoy’s teasing doesn’t send the hot flash of anger running through his veins like it normally would. There’s no venom in his voice, just playful teasing. Almost like friends. 

Later that night, when Harry settles into bed, he allows himself to think about it again. Friends. He doesn’t know why just the thought of it splits his face into a grin.

+++

Harry walks down the dim hallway that he recognizes as the Ministry of Magic. He’s in a seemingly endless corridor, doors on either side of him at random intervals. As he passes the doors, he hears pounding and screaming, sobbing and pleading from the other side of the thick wood. He struggles desperately to open them, but each is locked, and no spells will open them. 

Finally, he reaches a door whose handle turns easily in his hand. He walks into the room, sinking to the floor at the sight that greets him. Hermione and Ron lay on the dark stone floor, lifeless, embracing with an expression of fear etched on their dead faces. Standing over them is the Dark Lord himself, cackling, the Elder Wand in his hand. Harry looks back at the bodies on the floor, only to find that they’re no longer there. In their place, Malfoy is lying dead at Voldemort’s feet. His hair is splayed around his head, his silver eyes staring lifelessly at Harry.

Harry wants to fight back, but finds he can do nothing more but sob and scream as Voldemort raises his wand and shouts “Avada Kedavra!”

Harry wakes up with a start, the sound of Voldemort’s high, cruel laugh and a flash of green light burned into his head. He hears someone screaming. No, he hears himself screaming. He closes his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek and chanting, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, in his mind until the cold waves of fear stop slamming into him.

Before he even has the chance to get his heart rate under control, a crash sounds from outside his door, and he sits up, scrambling desperately for his glasses. Malfoy bursts into the room, wand drawn, hair sticking up all over the place, wearing an oversized t-shirt and cotton pajama pants. He’s barely visible, but Harry can see the tense outline of his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern coloring his voice. “I heard you screaming.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Just a nightmare.”

Malfoy’s posture softens, and he puts his wand away. “Okay,” he says, patting his hair awkwardly in a sleepy attempt to get it to lay flat. He turns to leave, and Harry finds himself wishing he wouldn’t. Now that the adrenaline from the nightmare has drained out of his body, he’s shaky and afraid, the room feeling too small and too empty at the same time. As if sensing his thoughts, Malfoy pauses at the door. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? If you need me to, I can…” 

“Stay,” Harry says. “Please.” With a flick of his wand, he lights a fire in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows over the walls and instantly warming the space between the two men. Malfoy crosses the room, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed opposite Harry, as far away as he can. Harry studies Malfoy. The soft light emanating from the fire makes his pale skin glow, and throws into relief the dark circles under his eyes. Harry briefly wonders how much sleep Malfoy gets; he’s always the first one to be awake despite not going to sleep until much later than Harry. He feels a twinge of concern, and mentally berates himself for not noticing until now.

“I get nightmares too, you know,” Malfoy says, breaking the silence that fills the room. “A few different ones. Repetitive, horrible.” Harry holds his breath, worrying that if he breathes too loud, whatever spell is possessing Malfoy to talk about his dreams will break. “Usually I’m stuck in the Manor again, during the war. The Dark Lord used it as his headquarters of sorts, and I dream I’m back there. Wandering the halls, knowing he’s following me. The people I-- I tortured are there, all of them, and they’re begging me to save them, and I want to. But then he whispers in my ear to finish them, and I’m not strong enough to say no.

“Sometimes it’s about that night on the Astronomy tower, when I disarmed Dumbledore. Before he falls, he reaches for me, and I try to save him, and I end up falling over the edge in his place.”

Malfoy looks at Harry, and his eyes are shining with tears. “You were right, you know, about my debt. I’ll never get rid of it. I could save thousands of lives, and still never make up for the things I’ve done.”

He looks back down at the fire.

“The worst nightmare, though, is about the Room of Requirement. About the Fiendfyre. In the dream, you don’t save me. You keep going, just fly right over my head and don’t come back. And I’m burned alive. And as I die, the last thing I can think is that I deserved it.” Malfoy’s face is turned away from Harry, but a slight break in his voice betrays his emotions. 

Harry has no idea what to say. Up until this point, they’ve both spent their time either fighting or tip toeing around each other. Now, here was Malfoy, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed and pouring his heart out.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself. “I never thanked you for saving me,” he says. “It was more than I deserved.”

Harry reaches out, hesitates, and then keeps going, resting a comforting hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. At first, the blonde jumps, but he doesn’t pull away, and settles into the touch instead. “I wouldn’t have left you there,” he begins, struggling to keep his voice steady. “You made some mistakes, I’ll admit that, but that doesn’t mean you deserved to die. You were just a kid.” Malfoy says nothing, just stares out the window at the sky that is just beginning to lighten. “Besides,” Harry adds. “I’d like to believe you would have done the same for me.”

“I think that’s your problem,” says Malfoy, turning to meet Harry’s eyes. His own eyes are steely gray with no hint of the emotion that his voice betrayed just moments before. “You have too much faith in other people.”

Without saying anything else, he stands and leaves Harry sitting in the shadows of his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow another chapter almost on schedule. This is as surprising to me as it is to you. As usual comments are greatly appreciated!!


	4. Chapter 4

After Harry’s nightmare, they’re back to their typical routine. Malfoy never mentions the conversation they had in Harry’s room, and neither does Harry. If it weren’t for the strange, prolonged looks Malfoy keeps directing at him, he could almost believe he dreamt the whole thing. 

The days get shorter, and colder, and the smell of gingerbread becomes ever present in the halls of the castle. Harry has to repeatedly call his students to attention; none of them can stop talking about the upcoming Christmas holiday. Even Malfoy seems to be excited, and has begun wearing different festive jumpers over his typical collared shirt.

One frosty Thursday in early December, Harry finds Malfoy sitting on his desk, as usual.

“Have you thought about what you’re doing for Christmas?” the blonde asks while handing Harry his tea.

“I was planning on spending it with the Weasleys, as I do every year.” He sips his tea. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’ll have to go with you, of course,” says Malfoy. Harry looks incredulous. “What, you didn’t think I’d just let you wander around alone while you’re still in danger, did you?” 

Harry has to admit he hadn’t thought about it, but the prospect of bringing Malfoy to Christmas at the Weasleys’ was unappealing.

“Ron’s an Auror. I’ll be perfectly safe with him,” Harry protests.

“The Ministry didn’t want to make him work overtime,” says Malfoy. “And technically, this is my case, and I’m the only one who should be working on it.

“I… I’ll let Molly know I’m bringing a guest, then,” Harry says, with a frown still etched into his face.

“Trust me, it’s not how I want to spend my holidays either,” he mutters, standing. He leaves Harry standing in the middle of the empty classroom, wondering how he’s going to break the news to Ron. 

+++

On the last day before the end of term, Harry looks out the window to find the lawn covered in a fresh layer of fluffy snow. He grins, thankful for the fact that he has no classes today. The sight of snow covering the Hogwarts grounds is one he hasn't seen for quite a few years, and it fills him with childlike joy that makes him want to run outside and build a snowman. Instead, he puts on his warmest clothes and leaves his room, finding Malfoy sitting at his desk as usual.

“I’m going to visit Hagrid,” Harry says. “Wish him Merry Christmas and all that, since we’re leaving tonight.” 

Malfoy nods and Harry walks down the hallway with barely concealed excitement towards the exit. When he steps outside, the bright winter sunlight hurts his eyes. A few stray, fluffy flakes fly by his face, and the cold bites his cheeks. It’s perfect.

With a skip in his step, he makes his way across the snowy lawn to Hagrid’s house. The shabby little house looks like its roof is about to collapse under the weight of the freshly fallen powder, but smoke curls from the crooked chimney, making the air smell sweet and smoky. 

Harry knocks on the door and it swings open, Hagrid’s face beaming at him from the other side.

“Harry!” he says, stepping aside to let Harry enter. The inside of Hagrid’s house is cozy and warm like usual, a roaring fire blazing in the fireplace in one wall. Hagrid pulls Harry into a bone-crushing hug. “Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Hagrid,” Harry replies when Hagrid finally releases him from the hug. Harry takes a seat in a chair near the fireplace, and Hagrid sits in the gigantic armchair across from him.

“How’ve yeh been?” Hagrid asks. “Is that git Malfoy bothering you too much?”

“I’ve been alright,” Harry replies. “It took a while, but I think we finally learned to be civil with each other.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” Hagrid says, but the look on his face says he doesn’t think it’s all that good. “I never liked him much, myself. Especially not after what happened with Buckbeak.”

“I know, but I think he's really different now. He’s grown up,” Harry says. Hagrid gives him a disbelieving look. Harry isn't entirely sure why he feels this dire need to defend Malfoy, when he himself would have been the first in line to call him a prick a few months ago. Nevertheless, he feels a strange rush of relief when Hagrid doesn't push the subject further. 

Instead, he begins talking about the new magical creatures that just arrived for the new term that will be beginning when they get back from the holidays. Harry could listen to HAgrid talk about creatures for hours, and before he knows it, it’s past noon and his stomach is growling with hunger. 

He thanks Hagrid and leaves with a box of fudge that he’s practically forced to take, on his way back up the lawn, something cold hits his back with almost enough force to knock him down. He turns around to see a group of pink-cheeked students, all frozen with expressions of horror on their faces and snowballs in their hands.

“Professor Potter, I’m so sorry,” says a first year in the front of the group, who obviously threw the snowball. Harry grins and, before any of the students have any time to react, he makes his own snowball and throws it at them. The snowball sails over their heads, but the message he was trying to send must have been clear, because they begin throwing their own back. He’s never one to back down from a good snowball fight. 

He ducks behind a tree to shield himself from the onslaught of snowballs sailing through the air. The first year who had thrown the first snowball at Harry is hit in the face by an older student, and in retaliation he dumps a handful of snow in the girl’s face. Harry packs more snow into a ball, and lobs it at a seventh year crouching behind a nearby rock. The snowball hits its mark, and the boy falls over. Harry almost feels bad until the boy casts a spell and sends several snowballs flying towards Harry. Harry, despite being cold and wet and covered in snow, laughs out loud. The snowball battle draws more students to the lawn, and soon enough it’s an all-out war with snow flying in every direction. 

“What’s going on down here?” he hears Malfoy’s voice call from the direction of the castle. Harry turns just in time to see a snowball smack into Malfoy’s stern face, causing his wand to fall out of his hand and into the snow.. All of the students freeze, wondering what he’ll do. 

His face distorts into a scowl. The student who threw the snowball begins to apologize profusely, on the verge of tears. Malfoy bends over, seemingly to pick up his wand, and before Harry has a chance to react he forms a snowball and flings it toward Harry. Harry ducks and he misses, and Harry retaliates by throwing another snowball back.

The snowball fight resumes around them, and Malfoy gets hit in the side of the head. He laughs and throws one right back, missing the kid who threw the ball at him but hitting a Hufflepuff fourth year instead.

The snowball fight continues for hours, with Harry and Malfoy right in the center of it. Harry seems to be Malfoy’s favorite target, but there’s no malice in his face as he sends snowball after snowball flying Harry’s way.

By the time the battle winds down and the students start trailing back into the castle, both Harry and Malfoy are soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. They walk back to the castle together, their cheeks rosy and eyes bright. Harry feels like a child again.

The two men leave a trail of water behind them as they make their way back to Harry’s classroom, but neither of them particularly care. When they arrive at the classroom, Malfoy begins to enter his own room, but Harry stops him. 

“Come in here,” he says, opening the door to his own room. “I'll make hot chocolate.”

Malfoy hesitated for a moment, and then follows Harry into his room. He stands awkwardly in the living room and Harry excuses himself to the kitchen. He panics for a minute or two when he realizes he doesn’t even have hot chocolate. Then he realizes he’s a wizard, for God’s sake and Conjures two steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with fluffy mounds of whipped cream, and a small plate of biscuits to go with it. On his way back to the living room, he grabs two towels and two clean sets of clothes from the closet. 

Malfoy is still standing in the same place when he gets back, a sizeable puddle forming around him. Harry sets the mugs and the biscuits down on the table and hands one of the towels to Malfoy. He takes off his soaked robes, gloves, and shoes until he’s left in only his jeans and shirt. “I um, I’m gonna go put these on,” he says, tossing one pair of pants and a tshirt to Malfoy. “You can wear those.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I can go get my own clothes, Potter, I’m not going to wear yours.”

“But it’s stupid to go all the way back to your room to get them,” Harry replies, conveniently ignoring the fact that Malfoy’s room is right next to his. He’s just worried that if Malfoy leaves, he won’t come back. “Just wear mine, they’re clean.” 

Malfoy rolls his eyes again, but obliges, and Harry goes into his own bedroom to change. When he comes back, Malfoy is wearing his pants and pulling the soft gray shirt over his head. Harry can see Malfoy’s toned chest and arms for the first time, and he inhales. The skin is pale and smooth and Harry wants nothing more than to run his hands over it take it all in.

Malfoy finally gets the shirt over his head and harry has to pretend he wasn’t string. His wet hair is tousled and Harry’s fingers itch to reach out and fix it, but instead he grabs a mug of hot chocolate and sits down on the couch, inviting Malfoy to do the same. 

The firelight bathes everything in a warm glow, and suddenly Malfoy looks more innocent and soft than Harry’s ever seen him. He doesn’t look like a child of war, a Death Eater-turned-Auror, or even the boy he was when they’d first met, already influenced by politics. Instead, he looks unguarded, curled with his feet underneath him on the sagging couch next to Harry, mug gripped in his delicate hand and looking so much smaller than Harry’s used to.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a snowball fight,” Malfoy says, breaking Harry’s quiet contemplation.

“Really?” 

“Mmhmm,” he takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “At home, my parents never would have allowed it. I wasn’t ‘proper pureblood behavior’. If I wanted to fight, I would have duelled with someone. Not that there were any kids around who wanted to play with me anyway. And then I got here, and I made a complete arse of myself right away, and everyone avoided me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, despite the fact that he was thinking that Malfoy got the treatment he deserved when they were students. Malfoy chuckles.

“No you’re not. I deserved the way people treated me. I was a dick. Still am, sometimes.”

“I don’t think you’re a dick,” Harry says. He’s surprised to find he means it, a lot more than he ever thought he could. 

“That’s sweet,” Malfoy says.

“My first snowball fight was right there, on that lawn, in my first year,” Harry says. He smiles, remembering. “Seamus tried to enchant snowballs and somehow managed to light one on fire.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows raise. “You didn’t have a snowball fight until you were eleven? What about before that?”

Harry’s chest tightens, and he briefly considers lying, and saving himself from divulging his horrible childhood to his former enemy. However, something in Malfoy’s unguarded expression makes Harry more willing to open up. “The Dursleys never gave me very warm clothes, so I usually stayed inside when it snowed. Once, my cousin Dudley had a snowball fight and I tried to join. He held my face in the snow until I passed out cold. Then, he started crying and when I came to, my aunt and uncle told me I couldn’t have dinner that night because I upset their poor baby.”

Harry avoids Malfoy’s gaze and the pity he knows he’ll find there. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity, especially Malfoy’s.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-” Malfoy begins.

“It’s alright,” Harry says, forcing himself to smile. “Who didn’t have a fucked up childhood, am I right?”

Malfoy nods, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Either way… I’d say for my first snowball fight, I did pretty well.” Harry looks up, and Malfoy is smirking, but the expression holds none of the malice Harry’s grown used to seeing on those lips.

“You still have a lot to learn,” Harry counters, a smile creeping onto his face. “I totally kicked your ass.”

“Are you kidding me? I could barely see you because you were constantly covered in snow,” Malfoy says, not even trying to hide his smile. “You could never beat me at anything, let alone a snowball fight.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry says, gently pushing Malfoy’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Malfoy responds, pushing Harry a little harder. This starts an all out war, both of them pushing and shoving and hitting, laughing all the while. Malfoy pushes Harry so hard he falls off the couch, but Harry catches his arm and pulls him down with him. Malfoy lands on top of Harry, their faces inches apart. Everything freezes for a moment, and Harry can feel Malfoy’s warm breath on his lips. Then, before he can even think, Malfoy closes the small distance between them, pressing their lips together.

Harry feels like fireworks go off inside his head. He presses one hand to Draco’s back and weaves the other through his soft, blonde, still slightly damp hair, trying to bring the other man closer, until there’s no space left in between. Harry doesn’t know what he’s thinking, other than the overwhelming feeling that being pressed into the floor, with Draco, his enemy, then a stranger, then his friend on top of him. He feels like he’s going to drown in the other man, and he couldn’t be happier about it. Draco breaks the kiss, panting heavily, keeping his eyes locked with Harry’s.

He gives Draco the chance to catch his breath before he’s grabbing him by the front of his shirt, pulling him back for another kiss. Harry feels like he’s overheating, but Draco’s hands are cold when they reach up under Harry’s shirt to skim over his skin. Kissing is like everything else with the two of them; a power struggle. He slips his tongue into Draco’s mouth, trying to lean up to get more leverage, but Draco presses his hands to Harry’s chest and pushes him back to the floor. Harry’s fine with being forced to the ground like that. In fact, he likes it more than he thought he ever would. He slides his hands down Draco’s back to cup his ass through his pants, and Draco responds by grinding slowly down on Harry.

Then, without warning, he sits up as quickly as if he’d been burned. His grey eyes are wide with alarm, and he scrambles to collect his wet clothes.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks.

Draco’s hair is sticking up in every direction, and his lips are shiny and pink. “That... shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry,” he stammers, turning around and walking quickly to the door. “I need to go.”

Harry sits, bewildered, wondering how he went from kissing his lifelong enemy to being alone on his floor in a matter of seconds. He touches his hand to his lips, remembering how they felt against Draco’s, and how warm and secure he felt pinned underneath the other man. Most of all, he remembers feeling like he was going to drown in Draco, and when he hears the door to the other man’s room slam, he knows with overwhelming certainty that he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long and kinda eventful chapter to make up for the brief hiatus. Hope you enjoy. As always, comments are greatly appreciated, in fact, I kinda live for them. You can also feel free to follow me on tumblr @honeybeebabe


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